


Over the Hills and Far Away

by Lila82



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Clarke’s father is executed, she’ll do whatever it takes to reach safety in the north. Luckily, she has a companion on the road.  Or, <i>A Song of Ice and Fire</i> AU with Clarke and Bellamy impersonating Arya and Gendry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Hills and Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely based off Arya/Gendry’s journey through books two and three, with mild inspiration from Jaime/Brienne. No knowledge of the ASoIaF series is required, although book and tv fans will appreciate references. There are spoilers for book one, but only vague references after that. Title and cut courtesy of Led Zeppelin.

 

* * *

 

She’d thought there’d be less blood. There always had been before. But then it had been her father wielding Griffin’s Grace, the blade cleanly slicing a man’s head from his neck. 

He would say to her afterwards, an unbearable sadness in his flinty Northern eyes, “Our people hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps, the man does not deserve to die." 

But they are no longer in the North and Southron ways are different, as is their king. He has a man to do his bidding – the King’s Justice they call him – and it takes him two tries to separate her father’s head from his strong shoulders.

The King’s eyes are impassive, empty, as he watches his former friend’s head roll down the Great Sept's steps. A wave of blood spills over the plaza’s smooth stones and Clarke thinks she’ll see that spray of red until the end of her days.

Just moments before, her father, the best man she ever knew, stood upon the dais, and all that remains is a bloody stump. She opens her mouth to scream but nothing comes out. 

A hand clamps over her mouth. “Have a care, girl,” a rough voice whispers in her ear. “Do you want to be found?”

The man has a craggy face and a thick, tangled beard that does little to make up for the lack of hair upon his head. She’s seen him before and she dips into the furthest recesses of her mind to place his weathered face. She studies his ragged tunic and dusty cloak. Black, no matter the wear and tear, he’s garbed in shades of black. 

“You’re a man of the Watch.”

“Aye,” he confirms. “Name’s Denby. We met once when you were but a wee thing.” He holds his hand about waist high to demonstrate. “You’ve…grown since then.” His eyes flicker over her breasts.

“What do you want with me?” Her words come out strangled, the memory of her father’s severed head making the simple act of speaking difficult. 

Denby grasps her arm and pulls her away from the crowd. “You’re the Griffin heir and they’ll be wanting you.” He gestures towards the dais where the king and queen still hold court. “You’d make a pretty hostage.”

Clarke looks pointedly at the hand he has locked around her upper arm. “And you’re kidnapping me for sport.”

“The North has always been good to the Watch, your father especially. Rations, swords, whatever we needed, he provided.” He casts a disgusted glare in the direction of the Great Sept. “Least I can do is keep his daughter safe from those leeches.”

“Where will you take me?”

“Home, girl. Where did you think?”

 _Home_. She was born in Arklight, lived many good years within its walls. Her family had been happy there, her father had been alive, her mother...she stiffens, overwhelmed by a sudden threat of tears. She won’t think on her mother, not on this day. She certainly won’t cry for her. 

“I thank you,” she says and takes Denby’s offered hand, follows him through the narrow streets of the capital to a waiting mount.

She doesn’t look back. There’s nothing left for her in this place.

 

* * *

 

Their plan is foolish but it’s a plan and Clarke does her best to stick to it. Denby thinks he might dress her as a boy, but they quickly see the flaws in his scheme. Her breasts are too big, her hips too full, and even in men’s clothes she still looks like a woman playing dress up. 

“You’ll be a serving girl,” he eventually says. “You’ll cook our meals and see to our laundry.” He eyes her critically. “You can do that, right?”

Clarke shrugs. She’s never cooked a day in her life, but Denby is her way out of the viper pit that passes for a capital. “I’ll make do.”

He grunts and leaves to see to the horses. She stares at the bag of flour, willing it to form loaves and bake itself. She’s seen Miss Lucy make bread half a hundred times. How hard can it be?

She burns most of the bread and the little that’s left is hard as a rock. The men at her cook fire grumble as she diligently doles out their meal. All week she’s kept a careful distance from them. They are forgiven for their crimes when they take their vows, but they’re a long way from the Wall. Until then, she’s bedding down with thieves and murderers and rapers. 

Clarke eats in silence at the edge of the fire, lacking an appetite but knowing the importance in keeping up her strength. If she falls behind, she’ll be left behind, and all that’s left of her world is reaching the North.

“If you’re going to pass yourself off as a serving wench, you might try cooking something edible.”

Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing as she seeks out the voice. He sits to her left, a tall, broad boy with a head of thick black curls. It’s too dark to see his eyes but she judges them to be brown. Like her mother’s eyes, warm and rich and…she bites into her jerky with more force than necessary.

“If you don’t like the food, make it yourself.”

He sighs and shifts a little closer, fixes her with a steady, even gaze. “I’m trying to help.” He looks her up and down. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

“What would you know of it?”

“I know that your father was Hand of the King. I know that you should be in the capital, but you’re on the Kingsroad. I know you’ve secrets to keep.”

She stares at him for a long moment, forcing venom into her voice to hide the fear in her heart. “You know nothing.”

He shrugs. “Have it your way. I’d be an ally if you asked.”

“Why do you want to help me?”

He hesitates, his shadowed eyes searching her face. She doesn’t tell him that he can trust her, but he must decide so all the same. “I don’t plan on being here when we reach the Wall. If you help me sneak rations for my journey, I’ll give you my protection.” He flexes his muscled arms as if to prove his point. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. She can take care of herself without resorting to theft. “You mean to steal!” 

“I’m no Ser, Princess,” he snaps.

Once, she thought she might be one. She’d dreamed of marrying Wells and making her home in the grandest city in the realm. Those dreams died the day her prince stood by and watched a masked executioner lop off her father’s head. Her hands curl into fists and she resists the urge to smash one into the boy’s smug face. She’s not angry with him, but he’ll do. Maybe if she hits something, it will lessen the pain in her chest.

She snaps back. “I’m no princess.” 

Their gazes lock and she finally sees his eyes – dark and rich like new soil – and it’s like looking in a mirror, seeing so much rage on another’s face. She looks away, the rage fading to a deep sadness. She could drive a sword through this boy’s heart and her father would still be dead. Nothing will change that.

But she is curious why he’s willing to risk losing a hand in his quest to escape the Wall. “Why is it so important for you to go north?”

He leans back on his elbows and studies her again. “Tell me your name.”

“My name? What do you want with my name?”

“You’re asking me to share my deepest secret. How can I do that if I don’t know who you are?”

She studies him as well, the strong curve of his jaw and sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. He’s handsome, but she’s seen pretty boys before. It’s the earnestness hidden in the depths of his eyes that makes her think she can trust him. 

“Clarke. My name is Clarke.”

His mouth quirks like it’s threatening a smile. “That’s a man’s name.”

“It’s the only name I have.” She bites her lip. Something he said is bothering her and it takes a moment to figure out what it is. “How did you know my title but not my name?”

Despite the dark, she swears he blushes, a warm flush creeping up his tanned cheeks. “I saw you at the Hand’s Tourney. My master – I used to make armor. I saw you sitting in the stands with the sunlight falling on your hair. It looked like liquid gold. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to blush and she ducks her head to hide the telltale flush. She’s received compliments before but they always felt insincere – calculated – but this boy, she hardly knows him yet she can tell that he means what he says. She blushes harder.

He clears his throat. “I’m Bellamy.” He sticks out a hand. She shakes it, shivering slightly at the feel of his rough, calloused skin against her own. His hands are as big and muscled as the rest of him. “Do we have a deal?”

She studies him for a long moment. He’s told her his name and intentions and he knows her true identify. If he’s willing to keep those secrets, she can trust him with the rest. “I have an alternate proposal.” 

“Go ahead.”

“I’m the heir to Arklight. If you get me to my home, I’ll be in your debt. You could choose your own payment.”

His eyes darken in the firelight. “Anything?”

She swallows hard but doesn’t look away. “Anything.”

Bellamy laughs, a rich sound that’s in contrast to the hard façade he puts up. She likes it more than she probably should. “Relax, Princess. I don’t want that.” He cocks his head in the direction of the road. “We have miles to go before I ask.”

“Don’t call me Princess.” 

He looks at her pointedly. “Alright, _Clarke_ , we leave at first light.” He rolls into his blanket and closes his eyes before she can respond.

Clarke watches him for a long time. In sleep, he looks young, almost innocent – trustworthy. She hopes she’s right about him. She can’t afford to be wrong.

 

* * *

 

It’s midday when they meet Monty and Jasper. 

They left at dawn with a week’s worth of rations tucked into their packs. Clarke feels guilty for having taken the food, but they left her horse and she thinks it's payment enough. Flour and dried meat are easier to come by than a good mount. 

She didn’t say goodbye to Denby either. He’d have tried to stop her and she knows in her heart that this is the true path. She hopes he senses her gratitude for saving her life.

By noon both she and Bellamy are in desperate need of a break: food, water, a moment to stretch their legs. Yet, they are stubborn, the both of them, and neither will ask the other to stop, so it’s more than fortunate when they spot two travelers stopped along the road.

Bellamy steps slightly in front of Clarke, his hand resting lightly on the knife sheathed in his belt. She shoves him aside and assesses the pair of boys seated atop a broken wagon.

The boys exchange a glance and the skinnier of the two rises to his feet. He throws back narrow shoulders and shakes shaggy dark hair from his eyes. “State your business!” 

Bellamy pulls up his tunic to expose his weapon. “How about you state yours?”

“We have no quarrel,” the other boy quickly says. He gestures at the wagon. “Our axle is broken. If you help us repair it, we’d be in your debt.”

Clarke responds before Bellamy can say otherwise. “We accept your offer.” Bellamy looks at her incredulously, but she presses forward. There’s no harm in helping another in need, but there’s great risk in turning their backs. She doesn’t want the boys spreading tales of selfish strangers traveling up the road.

“Thank you, thank you! I’m Monty,” the second boy says. He elbows his friend. “He’s Jasper.” They look like they want to hug their rescuers, but Bellamy’s knife keeps them at bay.

She chats with Jasper while Bellamy and Monty see to the wagon. She tells him that she and Bellamy are newly wed and traveling to Mechatown in search of work. It was a story they crafted in the early morning hours and from Jasper’s expression, a believable tale.

“He has skill with his hands.” She cocks her head towards where Bellamy is fitting the new axle. “There are more opportunities in the city than back home.”

Jasper nods. “I’ve never been anywhere but here.” His face falls some. “I’m a little jealous.”

She pats his hand, watches a flush spread over his cheeks. “Perhaps one day.”

He clears his throat and looks away. “Maybe with a lady as pretty as you.”

Clarke blinks, hopes she heard wrong. She did her best to look the part. Her hair is pulled back in a tight braid and her dress is the homespun wool she wore on her medicinal rounds through Fleabottom. She should look like any other peasant girl.

She crinkles her nose. “I’m no lady.”

Jasper shrugs. “You carry yourself like one.”

“When have you seen a lady?”

“Just last year, the king and queen stopped at my parents’ inn on their journey north.”

Clarke stiffens at mention of that trip. She remembers her excitement at seeing Wells, her oldest friend, the honor she felt that _her_ family would host the royal party. She remembers how quickly it changed, but on that first day, she hadn’t known the queen’s cruelty or Wells’ indifference. She didn’t know a king could be so weak.

She forces a smile, the same smile she wore all the last week while her father languished in a prison cell. “If you saw the queen, you didn’t see a lady.”

Jasper stares at her, trying to find the joke in her words. Clarke wants to kick herself for revealing her true feelings, but then Monty’s calling to them from the repaired wagon and the moment ends before she has to explain herself.

“We’ve a place to sleep tonight,” Bellamy says. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat and he smells a bit musty, but he crosses his arms and all she can see is the muscled mass of his biceps flexing across his chest. “Clarke?” He peers down at her. “Did you hear what I – ”

She turns to Jasper and Monty and smiles. “We thank you for your hospitality.” She ignores Bellamy’s confused look and climbs into the wagon.

Monty and Jasper chatter to themselves on the journey to the inn, but Clarke sits in the far corner of the wagon bed with her knees drawn to her chest. She continues to ignore Bellamy’s searching gaze. She recalls Denby’s warning, wonders if she was wrong to abandon his protection. No, Bellamy is irritating and infuriating, but she trusts him. She can’t say the same of the former prisoners Denby was bringing to the Wall.

Clarke’s still mulling it over when they arrive at the boys’ home, a little roadside inn with a barn and chicken coops in back. It’s clean and well maintained, but without a hint of luxury. She doubts the queen did anything there but turn up her nose. 

The boys’ parents rush out to meet them after hearing of how they repaired the wagon. Clarke forces another bright smile but this time she hears her mother’s voice in her head.

She was never the child her mother wanted, but there were complications during her birth and it quickly became clear that Lady Abigail Griffin would not bear another babe. Her father had never cared that his only child – his heir – was a girl, but her mother constantly fretted. Clarke was beautiful, but wild, more comfortable with a sword in hand than embroidery. Clarke hated dresses and doeskin slippers, longed to roam the woods in search of herbs and roots to heal the sick. She spent hours in Miss Lucy’s kitchen, learning each plant and its uses, practicing skills a fine lady would never need.

When she flowered at thirteen, her mother put the end to her childish pursuits. “You’re a woman now. It’s time you acted as one,” her mother would say as she pulled Clarke’s hair from her face in a tight style favored by the queen’s court. Abigail Cartwig was Southron born, and while she’d lived her entire adult life in the North, she was determined that her daughter be a lady worthy of any highborn man in the realm. Clarke learned to smile coyly and flutter her eyelashes, to sing and dance and play the high harp. She felt a bit of her soul die every time she laughed at another poorly wrought joke.

She falls back on those skills today as she takes a seat at the Jordans’ table and eats their bread and salt. Not once does Bellamy’s concerned gaze leave her face.

After the meal, Mrs. Jordan stands in the entrance to the barn. “I’m so sorry, but the inn is full and I didn’t know you’d be coming along…” She wrings her hands from worry.

Clarke takes her hands and squeezes. “We’ve passed the last two nights in the open.” She casts a glance at the horses and cows. “A bed of straw and warm sleeping companions are a welcome respite.”

Bellamy agrees. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

Mrs. Jordan laughs in relief and reminds them to join her family for breakfast the next morning. Neither Clarke nor Bellamy respond. They know they’ll be gone before sunup and don’t want to lie to these good people.

“Turn your back.” Clarke pulls from her pack the oversized tunic Denby tried to dress her in. 

He rolls his eyes but turns all the same, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor while he waits. 

“You can turn around now.” The tunic reaches nearly to her knees yet Bellamy struggles to keep his eyes on her face. Has he never seen a woman’s legs before? The man grows stranger with each day she knows him.

Without warning, he pulls his tunic over his head, exposing broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest. Clarke finds herself working hard to keep her eyes on his face as a heated flush creeps up her neck. “What are you doing?” She’s painfully aware of how high-pitched her voice sounds.

He ignores her and settles on their makeshift mattress. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” He pats the spot beside him. “Aren’t you coming?”

She carefully slides into the bed and draws her blanket to her chin. They aren’t touching, but he still takes up all the space, his big, warm body radiating heat like the hot springs at Arklight. He smells good too. Mrs. Jordan gifted them with fresh water and a sliver of soap and he clearly put it to use.

He’s quiet, so quiet she thinks he’s drifted into sleep, but then he breaks the amiable silence with that familiar deep rasp.

“Why are you so scared?”

She scoffs. “You know why I had to flee the capital.”

“I didn’t ask why you fled. I asked why you’re scared.”

The fear catches in her throat, makes it hard to breathe. She lets out a strangled sound and tries to catch her breath. But Bellamy is there and he takes her hand, strokes his thumb over her palm. “You can trust me.” 

She _can_ trust him – it’s one of the few things she still knows to be true – and she finds it a bit easier to breathe. “My father was the king’s oldest friend. Some said his only friend. It was a great honor for him to serve as the King’s Hand, even if it meant leaving Arklight. But once in the capital, he began to see things differently. He saw the pain and suffering, how little power the smallfolk had. He wanted to redistribute power, give the smallfolk a voice.” Her own voice drops to a whisper. “He thought the monarchy was a practice best kept in the past. He planned to share his views at the next Small Council.”

“And the king killed him by his own hand.”

“Not by his own hand!” She sucks in a deep breath to calm the rage roiling in her chest. 

Bellamy is quiet a long time, his thumb never ceasing to caress her palm. “You were there.”

“A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.” She repeats the words she heard her father say half a hundred times. “I was there. I saw a great man die and a coward hide behind his Justice. We’ve no king in the capital but a craven wearing a crown.”

“And so you fled rather than become the Wallaces’ hostage.” 

She grimaces at mention of the queen’s family. “I know my father’s secret. I’d be more than a hostage. I’d find my own neck upon the block.”

Bellamy’s fingers tighten around hers. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You are my companion on the Kingsroad. You don’t owe me your life.” She tries to pull her hand free but he won’t let her go.

“I know something of having your choices taken away. I won’t let the same happen to you.” 

“I don’t understand – ” 

“A story for another time. Just know that I will keep you safe until we reach the Wall.”

She wants to demand he share his story, but she can just make out his face in the dim light and the tense set of his jaw tells her to leave his tale for another day. They have many weeks ahead on the road. There will be time enough.

“I thank you, Bellamy. You may not be a knight, but you are not without honor.”

He laughs, rich and low, sending a shiver down her spine. He mistakes it for a chill and pulls her tight against his chest, drapes an arm over her belly to keep her in place. “We’ll be warmer if we sleep together.

She could tell him that she’s warm enough but she likes the feel of his strong arms around her and the steadiness of his heart beating against her back. She lets him hold her all night long.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy shakes her awake an hour before dawn. “Get dressed. We’re losing the light.” 

He turns his back without prompting and Clarke quickly slips into her homespun dress and leather shoes.

It’s the horse that gives them pause. Clarke knows it’s necessary. While they’re making good time, their journey is on foot and their bodies can only take so much walking. A horse is the solution they seek. Except the Jordans have been good to them, more than what is required by the guest right, and she hates stealing from them. 

Her only object of value is the ring her father gave her on her sixteenth name day. It had belonged to her grandmother, a brilliant, sparkling sapphire from an island in the Narrow Sea, a jewel the same color as her eyes. Once she wore it upon the third finger of her right hand and now she wears it on a thin chain about her neck, but its value is unchanged. It will more than cover the cost of the horse.

Bellamy watches her lift the chain from beneath the neckline of her dress and hold it to her heart before placing it on the saddle stand. She’d hoped it would be easier, betraying those who’ve done her a kindness, but the betrayal weighs just as heavily in her chest. As does giving away the only piece of her father she has left. 

She bows her head to hide the sudden threat of tears and so she misses Bellamy pressing cool metal into her palm. She opens her eyes and it’s her grandmother’s ring in her hand. 

“Keep it. I can tell it means something to you.” He lifts the hem of his tunic and pulls out a pocket he’s sewn into the waistband of his breeches. She watches, mouth agape, as he withdraws several coins and leaves them in place of her ring.

Clarke fixes him with her fiercest stare. “Aren’t you going to explain yourself?” 

“It wasn’t by chance that you found me amongst men destined for the Wall. I’ve always planned to leave the capital and make my way north.” He pats the small pocket. “I’ve been saving for it most of my life.”

“So why now?” She crosses her arms over her chest, doesn’t let her hard gaze fall.

He pauses, his expression pained. “Your father, actually. If the Hand could be executed in a public square, what would that mean for the rest of us?”

The betrayal burns inside her. It’s like Wells all over again. “I don’t like liars.”

“I didn’t lie – ” He stops, runs a hand over his face. “I can’t promise to tell you everything, but I gave you my vow. I intend to keep it.”

Once, her mother made a vow to love and honor her father, and Clarke was there when Lady Abigail Griffin stood by while her husband was branded a traitor. She has little faith in a stranger keeping his promise. But there’s something about his eyes that draws her in, the earnestness that she thought had vanished from the realm. She believes him, against her better instincts, she trusts this boy with his dark, solemn eyes. 

“Alright,” she says, watches his chest deflate slightly in relief. “It’s no easy thing, keeping secrets.” She smiles, just a slight curve of her mouth. “I warn you, I won’t stop asking.”

He smiles in a way that’s like looking into the sun. That smile is so bright it’s blinding. “I look forward to the challenge.” He bows low, earning a swat from Clarke, but it goes a long way towards easing the tension in the barn.

Over the course of the morning, Clarke shows Bellamy the basics of riding. He’s a fast learner despite his city upbringing and by midday he’s confident enough to manage the horse on his own. She rides pillion behind him, calling out instructions when the horse takes too much control. She does her best to ignore the constant press of their bodies against each other, or the softness of his hair when it blows across her face. Instead, she concentrates on their mission. Each mile they ride is one mile closer to safety. She can’t afford other distractions.

“Your mother is from the river lands.” Bellamy says sometime in late afternoon. Clarke peers over his broad shoulder, spots the banner of House Cartwig blowing in the breeze. “Would her people offer us respite?”

Clarke stiffens behind him, her thighs gripping his hips with all her might to keep from falling off the horse. Only in her nightmares does she set foot inside her mother’s house. “We keep riding.”

Bellamy twists in the saddle, but she keeps her face averted, eyes fixed on the slowly setting sun. “As you wish,” he says softly. They don’t speak again until long after the sun has slipped from the sky.

They spend the night beneath the stars on an ancient hill ringed by weirwood stumps. They make Bellamy uneasy but Clarke finds comfort in these relics of the old gods – her gods.

Bellamy pulls his blanket tighter over his shoulders and rubs his arms. “Something tragic happened here.”

A strange voice responds. “Many years ago but the ghosts linger.” The voice’s owner appears, more child than woman, and bent and gnarled with age. She smiles at them, a toothless grin, and takes a seat opposite Bellamy. “I’ll share your fire this night. I’m no longer young and the cold is hard on my bones.”

Clarke doesn’t think the woman was ever young, but she’s certainly old and Clarke won’t turn her away. Not after all the hospitality they received on the road. “You are our guest.”

The woman helps herself to their water skin but mostly sits at the fire’s edge, rubbing arthritic hands and mumbling to herself. Clarke and Bellamy silently finish their dinner, the strange woman having turned down the bread and jerky they offered.

“Do you have a name?” Bellamy asks once the meal has been packed away and the beds rolled out. 

The woman looks at him with eerie yellow eyes. “Only those who sing the song of the earth know my true name. You may call me Luna.”

“It means moon,” Clarke says, a little in awe. She knows a few words of the Old Tongue – all Northerners do – but she’s never heard them so casually spoken.

“Once our sun was rising but now it sinks. This is our long dwindling.” Luna lets out a wistful sigh. “I’m the last of my kind. It is fitting that I bring the endless night.”

Clarke shivers, from the cold or Luna’s strange tale, and Bellamy pulls her into his side, folds her into the warmth of his blanket. 

Luna turns her peculiar gaze on Bellamy. “The old gods stir and will not let me sleep. I dreamt I saw the ram shed his skin and spill his blood and rise from the field with steel in his bones. I dreamt I saw a maid take flight, screaming from the heavens there will be light.” Luna’s eyes glow yellow and molten in her ancient face. “The light will always shine again.”

Clarke stares at her. “Shut up you old hag!” She shrugs off Bellamy’s blanket and jumps to her feet, putting distance between herself and their visitor.

Bellamy tries to follow her. “Clarke! She’s just an old woman!”

But Clarke can’t hear him over the roaring in her ears. Those were her family’s words – _The light will shine again_ – spilling from Luna’s mouth. The woman shouldn’t even know her name and yet it feels like she can see inside her. Across the fire, Luna watches with her great golden cat’s eyes.

“I mean no harm, only to remind you who you are. The Griffin may fall but it always rises from the ashes.”

Clarke shakes her head, unable to dislodge the memory of her father’s severed head. There must always be a Griffin in Arklight, but today the castle stands alone and empty. There will never be another Jake Griffin, no matter how hard his daughter tries. Yet Luna is not at fault, no matter how her words shook Clarke to her core. She lets her know as much.

“I apologize. I…I’m grieving and sometimes forget to hold my tongue.”

With surprising agility, Luna rises to her feet. She takes Clarke’s hands. “The weirwoods whisper in my ear when I sleep. Your story has many more chapters left.” She pulls away but Clarke feels a lingering memory of her touch, like a song singing over her skin. It makes her regret her earlier words.

“Ram’s blood?” Bellamy asks after Luna fades into the gloom. “The Jahas are rams. What do you think she meant by it?”

“She sees more than she should.” Clarke sinks into their nest of blankets, pulls one tight around her.

Bellamy curls into her back just as he did the night before. “Those were your family’s words, the light will shine again.”

Clarke draws closer to him. “She said my story is unfinished. There must always be a Griffin in Arklight.” She rolls to face him, regret replacing the anger and grief in her chest. “I cannot journey with you to the Wall.”

He strokes a hand over her hair, brushing the loose strands from her face. “I promised to see you to safety. I didn’t specify where.”

“But it will add time to your journey – ”

“I’ve waited long enough. What’s a few more days?” He’s quiet a long minute and she nearly falls asleep. Her cheek rests on the hard muscles of his chest and she’s lulled into slumber by the cool night and the warm fire and his fingers stroking gently through her hair. “I have a sister,” he finally says. Clarke stirs and opens her eyes, her breath stolen by the vulnerability she sees in his face. He’s going to let her in and she didn’t even have to ask. “You wanted to know why I left the capital. My sister is younger by seven years, a beauty, if the local boys are to be believed. Neither of us knew our fathers and our mother…” He sucks in a breath. “Our mother was a talented seamstress but never earned enough to fill three bellies. There’s always money to be made when you have a bit of flesh.”

“Your mother was a whore.”

“Aye. And if she’d have had her way, my sister would have been one too.” Beneath her cheek, his chest trembles with rage.

“What happened to your sister?”

“I sent her north, to Mole’s Town.” 

Clarke pushes up to better see his face, but there’s no jest there. “How?” 

“Same as us: she joined a band departing for the Wall.” Even in the dark, she sees him blush. “She was…less developed than you. We could pass her off as a boy.” 

“And you’re sure she’s in Mole’s Town?” Clarke doesn’t want to doubt his story, but she has trouble believing it. She barely made it out of the capital before her secret was discovered. It’s less likely that his sister made it to the other side of the realm.

Bellamy laughs. “I know Octavia. She made it.”

“And you mean to join her there.” 

“When she was a babe, I vowed never to let anything bad happen to her. It’s been three years already.”

“And you always keep your vows.” She doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so bitter, but she’s jealous. There’s no one in her life so devoted to her well being, so determined to remain at her side. Once she thought Wells could fill that role but she’s seen his true nature. He’d choose himself every time. 

“That I do.” His hand drops low to rest on the base of her spine. “Go to sleep, Clarke. We’ve a long day ahead.” 

She slides deeper into the warmth of him, falls into an easy, dreamless sleep. He made her a vow. She’s confident he’ll be there when she wakes up.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sure of this?” Bellamy asks wearily. It’s been a long day of hard riding and Clarke’s asking him to make the day even longer. 

Tesla Tower has long stood at the Neck, a slim piece of land connecting the South to the much larger North. “Imagine my fingers are the South’s armies,” her father had said the first time she’d asked. He’d waggled his fingers and made her laugh. “Now, imagine my fist is the Tesla Tower.” He’d closed his hand around the fingers of his other hand, gripping them so tight the tips turned purple. “The Tesla Tower protects the North from invasion, chokes the power from potential enemies. Whoever controls the Tower controls the North.”

She and Bellamy are two souls rather than an army, but she still wishes to avoid the place. With the turmoil in the capital, there’s no telling whose men are watching the Neck.

“The Millers are bannermen to my house. They will provide safety and shelter.”

Bellamy shakes his head in disbelief. “Crannogmen,” he whispers. “Back home, they’re practically myth.”

“And not so keen on outsiders,” Clarke replies. He’s riding pillion today while she steers the horse through the mess of bogs and marshes. “Follow my lead.”

She can already sense them in the trees, hidden eyes watching their every move. At Court, they joked of crannogmen mating with frogs and producing half breed beasts but Clarke knows better. She met Lord Miller and his son the year of her tenth name day and they were no more monstrous than the queen or her brother. 

She and Bellamy have been riding less than an hour when Nathan finds them, drops from a tree with his frog spear in hand. An intricately woven net hangs from his belt. The crannogmen are a poor but proud people – they know how to make use of every inch of the swamp.

“Lady Clarke,” he says. “It has been many years.” He turns his attention to Bellamy, rearing back when he sees her companion’s face. “We must get you inside.”

Bellamy gives her a questioning look but she shrugs, unable to explain Nathan’s odd behavior. He’s a crannogman – it should be explanation enough.

They follow Nathan into the castle to greet his father. It’s hardly a hall compared to the grandness of Arklight, but a lord waits with bread and salt and Clarke follows the rituals of her birth. Lord Miller watches as they complete the guest right, a grave look upon his face. Clarke thinks it’s more than their travel-stained garb and weary expressions.

He gestures at the table. “There is much to discuss.” 

Dinner is fish caught fresh from the marshes and mealy bread. Clarke eats her full portion but Bellamy picks at his food. He’s uneasy in this hall, with its strange people and strange food, a situation made worse because Nathan won’t stop staring at him.

Bellamy shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

Lord Miller smiles sadly. “Jake Griffin was a loyal friend. I am honored to have his daughter and her companion in my hall.” 

They’d given the Millers a bare bones version of their escape and both men had been grateful to Bellamy for rescuing their lord’s heir. The staring started after he revealed his origins in the capital. Clarke’s known Nathan to be strange and sometimes unsettling, but this behavior is extreme. She’s trying to ask him about it when his father inquires about their plans.

“If you’d be kind enough to guide us through the Neck, we’ll continue to Arklight,” Clarke requests. “We could be there in a fortnight if we ride hard.” 

Lord Miller shakes his head. “Even we have news of what transpired in the capital. The Kingsroad is being watched.”

Clarke’s shoulders slump in defeat. “There’s only one road North.”

“You won’t cross through the Neck. Instead, cut east towards the Kanes' seat. Your aunt will give you her protection until you hire a ship to take you north.”

It had never crossed her mind to turn to her aunt – her mother’s younger sister – for help, but she knows her Aunt Callie won’t turn her away. They could rest there, sleep in real beds and eat fine food, but it would mean adding at least a week to their journey and Bellamy has been without his sister too long. 

“I’m coming,” he says before she can tell him that she’ll continue alone. 

“You’ve gotten me far enough,” she protests. “Your sister needs – ”

“It’s been three years. Another week won’t make a difference.”

“You’re sure?”

He curls his fingers around the back of her head and tugs so their brows meet. “I made a vow.”

“I release you from it.”

“That’s not how it works.” 

Arguing won’t change his mind so she turns to Lord Miller. “We leave at dawn. Thank you again.”

Lord Miller nods. “I’ll have provisions ready and a second horse saddled.” He holds up a hand to silence her protest.

At her side, Bellamy shifts again from the intensity of Nathan’s stare. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

He regards Bellamy with a gaze not unlike Luna’s, gold and glowing and far too wise for one so young. “This one has king’s blood.”

“What?” Bellamy demands.

"A union is fertile when the ram lies down with fleas." He leans forward to better study Bellamy’s face. “The eyes never lie.”

“Nathan has the sight,” Lord Miller hastily interjects. “He’s still learning how to use it.”

But Bellamy isn’t consoled by his words. He sits frozen in place, the color draining from his shocked face. “Luna, she said I was blood of the ram. My father…it can’t be true.”

Clarke wants to tell him the common saying, that prophecies are like half-trained mules – they look like they might be useful but at the moment you trust in them, they kick you in the head – but she looks into his eyes and sees the truth.

_The eyes never lie._

Bellamy doesn’t have eyes like her mother. He has eyes like Wells, her dearest friend, her greatest betrayer. Bellamy isn’t a half-starved boy from Fleabottom – he’s a king’s son.

Without a word, he picks up and runs.

David looks regretful. “I’m sorry he had to find out this way.”

Clarke absently nods, eyes already cast on the door swinging closed behind Bellamy. “I need to go to him.”

Nathan stares from across the table. “Leaves of the five and wood of bone, they watch him while weeping blood.”

Every northern house has at least one weirwood but Miller’s Crossing is unlike other keeps. An entire grove of weirwoods grows on their small isle and she finds Bellamy kneeling before the largest tree, a great weirwood with a laughing smile. Clarke guesses it to be the heart tree and she sits beside him in the soft earth.

“I didn’t think to find you here,” she says after several minutes pass, the clearing silent but for the wind whispering through the weirwood leaves. She remembers him at High Heart, how unsettled he’d been even before Luna came upon them. She doesn’t understand why he’d choose this place to find peace.

He shrugs. “I thought I’d find some comfort in a godswood.”

Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “You’re Southron born – you’d keep to the Faith of the Seven.”

Bellamy doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes fixed on the heart tree’s mocking grin. “The Seven have never answered my prayers. Perhaps the old gods will.” 

He finally meets her gaze and she’s struck by the look in his eyes. He looks small and scared, nothing like the strong, cocky boy she met on the road. She doesn’t want to spook him so she only smiles, a soft smile that she hopes will convey how much she cares. 

“They say you cannot tell a lie before a weirwood.” His eyes flare, a challenge brewing in their dark depths. “Is it true?”

She touches his face, curls her palm to cup his cheek. “You have the prince’s eyes.” He sucks in a breath. “You say you never knew of your father. Now you do.”

“Natural son to a king!” He laughs, but it’s filled with bitterness. “No wonder my master wanted me gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“My skills were starting to rival his. He sold me to the Watch, said it was for the best. I thought he was trying to eliminate competition, but maybe I thought wrong. Perhaps he was trying to save me instead.”

“Wells is not the son the queen wanted, but he is the son she has.” Clarke’s free hand tightens into a fist. “She will eliminate any threat on his claim to the throne.”

“It seems we are both prey for the Wallaces.”

Clarke kneels before him and holds his face between her palms. “I make this vow, before my gods, to see you to safe to the Wall.” 

“I’m no princess.”

She smiles. “I’m no knight.”

“So long as we’re agreed.”

“That we are.”

Their eyes lock for a long minute and then, as if propelled by an outside force, their mouths come together. It’s sweeter than she would have imagined, and not just the lingering taste of wine from dinner. It’s easy how their mouths fit together, natural when his hands come to tangle in her hair and deepen the angle. She gasps when her mouth opens and Bellamy’s tongue slides inside, but she’s always been a quick learner and soon he’s the one gasping. 

Bellamy pulls away with a sigh and smoothes down her messy hair. “There’s time for that later.”

She doesn’t disagree. Being taken in the open air is appealing, but not after the truth revealed this night. If they are to share their bodies, she wants it to be only about them.

Instead, she takes his hand and tugs him to his feet. “Time for bed. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”

He lets her lead him into castle and to the rooms set aside for their use. She intends to sleep in her own bed, but wishes to see him into his, turns her back while he sheds his clothes and climbs beneath the coverlet.

“Close your eyes,” she instructs. He dutifully obeys and as she watches him sleep, she’s again struck by how young he looks, young and fragile, in need of protection. It feels wrong leaving him alone tonight. 

She slips out of her dress and curls behind him, drapes an arm over his firm belly. He shifts and burrows closer, his hard muscles molding to her softer curves. “A perfect fit,” she thinks and buries her face in the nape of his neck. 

She keeps watch over him all through the night.

 

* * *

 

They don’t discuss the kiss or their sleeping arrangements. The Millers met them at dawn with the promised provisions and horse and wished them well on their journey east. Nathan offered no further insights. 

It’s a hard ride to her aunt’s castle but they make good time, even while keeping a vigilant eye on the Kingsroad. If word of her escape reached Miller’s Crossing, noble houses of higher esteem will certainly be looking for her. Bellamy too – the queen’s men will be no less ruthless. 

Clarke feels more at ease when the great tower of Kane’s Folly rises from the mist. It’s some ways off, but there’s an end in sight and refuge in her aunt’s keep. 

“Is that it?” Bellamy levels a hand against his brow and squints.

“We’ve to pass through the mountains first but then, yes, Kane’s Folly in all its glory.”

“Folly?”

She steers her horse towards the narrow path into the valley. “I thought you knew something of history.” 

He shrugs and nudges his horse to follow hers. “My mother told us stories of the King’s Crown and Long Night, but not so much the great houses.”

“The Kanes of old were always defending their lands from the mountain clans. Nero Kane built an impregnable castle on the edge of the highest mountain in the realm. “No one would get in,” he vowed. “My people will be safe.” Yet what Nero failed to realize is that in keeping invaders out, allies struggle to get in. The castle can withstand a siege but it always stands alone.” 

“And we know better than to stand alone.”

“Yes, we do.” Their eyes lock, that familiar heat between them. She clears her throat and urges her horse on.

Her aunt waits for them at the base of the mountain, her shrew gaze following their every movement as they finish their descent. It’s been five years since she laid eyes on Lady Kane, but her aunt looks the same, with her dark hair pulled into a long braid and keen dark eyes. Wearing men’s clothes and holding a spear in her hand, she looks very much like a warrior and very little like the great lady she’s supposed to be.

“Welcome, niece.” 

“Aunt Callie.” 

Her aunt’s eyes lock on Bellamy. “And who is this?”

Bellamy steps forward. “Bellamy…of Fleabottom, milady.” Lady Kane peers at him closely, taking particular interest in his eyes.

“He is my protector,” Clarke explains. “He has been my constant companion from the capital to Kane’s Folly.”

Callie continues to inspect Bellamy but stops asking questions. “Come. You must be hungry and tired. We have food and drink and comfortable beds inside.”

They climb into a steel basket that swings as it makes its way up the mountain. Bellamy leans pitifully against the rail, his skin tinged a sickly shade of green.

“If you’re going to retch, do it over the side.” Lady Kane tilts her head to show him the way.

Bellamy shakes his head. “I won’t be sick.” He gestures at the clouds surrounding them. “I’m not used to being in the air.”

Callie regards him solemnly. “Beasts of the earth never are.”

His color pales even further. “You know what I am.”

She shrugs. “My niece is a creature of the sky. She already has her wings. I’ll show her how to use them.”

“And me?”

Carefully, she slides her hands down his back, lingering a moment over his shoulder blades. “Your wings are strong, but will you soar?”

Clarke watches silently, unsure how to interpret their conversation. She thinks her wings are in reference to the griffin but Bellamy’s sigil is a ram and rams can’t fly. It feels like her first day in the capital, how lost she felt amongst the women of the court in their silks and satins. Her best wool was no match for their opulent gowns or their sly, Southron manners. She had cared little about belonging in their world, but losing Bellamy hurts. He’s been with her since the worst day of her life, made every day since a little brighter. She isn’t ready to let him go.

He pulls her back in with the small, secret smile he smiles just for her. “I think I will.”

Clarke blushes, her cheeks hot despite the near freezing air around them, and ducks her head. The heat lingers when they arrive at the keep, leaves a dull red tinge to her usually pale cheeks. She stares at her reflection in the polished steel that serves as her mirror. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and her smile appears a bit wider. She tells herself it's because she’s relieved to have arrived safely at Kane’s Folly and not the broad, loyal boy waiting for her below. 

Bellamy wears a clean tunic and breeches and his hair falls in damp curls over his brow. She clasps her hands to keep from touching him but he extends an arm and she’s forced to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. Even through all the layers of linen and wool, he feels warm to the touch. His muscles pulse beneath her fingers as he leads her into the great hall.

The fare is simple but far richer than the meal served at Miller’s Crossing. Bellamy dines more openly, but Clarke picks at her food. Every movement is a distraction: the tendons flexing in his hands when he cuts his food, the chords of his throat bobbing as he sips his wine. She takes a long sip of her own wine and picks apart a piece of bread. 

“I’ve had a raven from Marcus,” Callie says. Bellamy puts down his fork but Clarke nearly spills her wine. She puts her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for it.

“Marcus?” Bellamy asks.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Clarke explains. “He used to be Aunt Callie’s husband.”

For half a second, Lady Kane’s hard exterior cracks. “He was branded a traitor after the Eden Tree Rebellion. They told him to choose death or the Wall and he chose life.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Nothing to be done about it now.” She gestures for the maester to bring Clarke the letter.

“Dark wings, dark words?” Bellamy asks.

“Arklight is no longer safe.” She passes the note to her aunt. “Uncle Marcus says the Ridleys insist on holding my seat until the true heir is returned.” She scoffs. “They may be my father’s bannermen, but he’s never had faith in them.”

“He was right not to trust them,” Callie adds. “There is much gold in Mount Weather, enough to buy a false regency.”

Bellamy looks thoughtful. “We go to the Wall. Nowhere else will we be safe.” 

Clarke disagrees. “The Watch does not interfere with matters of the realm. They will not shield us from the queen or her family.” 

“Marcus was your kin before he took his vows.” Callie’s expression is determined. “He will help you in this, I swear it.” She gestures for another servant to come forward. He lays a jingling pouch on the table. “For the ship.”

“We have our own coin.” 

“Take this gift, Bellamy Blake. It will be a long while before you receive another.” 

He grasps the pouch with one large hand and slips it into his tunic. “Thank you, Lady Kane. Your generosity is appreciated.” 

“We are kin.” She looks pointedly at Bellamy. “Sterling is inquiring about passage to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. From there, you will travel over land to Castle Black. Marcus is expecting you.” 

They rise so they can retire to bed but Lady Kane keeps Clarke with her. “A moment with my niece,” she says and smiles sweetly, too sweet for a lady that carries a great sword on her hip.

Bellamy bows a farewell and Clarke shifts in her seat, dreading the coming conversation. “I’ve had a raven from your mother,” Aunt Callie says. Clarke lets out a surprised noise. “What did you think I’d say?”

Yet again, Clarke blushes. “I thought you’d ask about my intentions for Bellamy.”

Her aunt rolls her eyes. “You have feelings for him, that much is clear. He’s rough around the edges but he’ll treat you well.” Her eyes soften, longing ghosting across her gaze. No matter how strong Callie appears, she’s married to a ghost. Even fifteen years later, she still grieves. Her eyes harden. “I wish to speak of your mother.”

“She killed my father. What else is there to say?” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares mutinously at her aunt.

“The King’s Justice killed your father – ”

“She did nothing to stop it!” 

Lady Kane sighs. “I know you grieve, Clarke. I loved Jake too and mourn his loss. Do not think your mother doesn’t grieve as well.”

“She let him die.”

“To save you.” 

Clarke’s head snaps up in disbelief. Her aunt’s words can’t be true. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m of age with Lorelei Wallace. Her brother Cage too. Do not think because they are of a noble house that they have noble intentions.”

“I don’t – ”

“Your mother knew if she interfered then you would be next. Rather than blame her, pity the sacrifice she had to make. Husband or daughter, that was the choice forced upon her.” 

“She chose me.” She can barely see her aunt through the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Callie’s voice is gentle. “She worries for your safety. She deserves to know that you are alive.”

“After we depart, send a raven to King’s Landing. Tell my mother that the light still shines.”

Her aunt has barely left the hall when familiar footsteps sound on the hard stone. Bellamy appears, concern etched into his handsome face. He opens his arms and she falls into them, fresh tears soaking the fabric of his tunic. 

“I’m here,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m _here_.”

“My mother,” she says between sobs. “She let my father die so I could live. How am I supposed to live with that?”

“You make him proud. Finish what he started.”

“I’m one girl.”

“The light will shine again.” Despite her grief, a smile curves her mouth. She likes her family’s words spilling from his mouth.

“And you think I’ll bring it about?”

“I don’t see anyone else trying.” He brushes the remaining tears from her cheeks. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She thinks on his words as he sweeps her into his arms and carries her to her chamber. _Lightbringer_ is a legend of old, older even than Luna. Words are wind but she sees deeper meaning in Bellamy’s. Someone has to stand up to the Wallaces and their ilk. She’s the last Griffin – why not her? She keeps thinking on it while Bellamy carries her up the stairs and removes her slippers before tucking her into bed. 

“Stay.”

He glances at the door. “Your aunt – ”

“Will not care if we sleep in the same bed.” 

“Sleep?” His tone is mischievous.

She tosses a pillow at him. “There’s time for that later.”

His eyes slide down her body before he sits on the mattress’ edge to remove his boots.

She watches his muscles bunch in the golden light, her skin tingling with anticipation. It is no longer a possibility, but a certainty. He blows out the candle. It’s only a matter of time.

 

* * *

 

They stay two more days at Kane’s Folly before Sterling secures a ship, a small trading cog already bound for Eastwatch.

Aunt Callie gives them provisions and new clothes and a large packet of dried herbs for Clarke. “Tansy,” she explains, eyes flicking to where Bellamy helps load the basket. “A pinch in your tea every morning and your belly won’t swell.” 

Blushing, Clarke snatches the packet and stuffs it into her pack. She pulls a letter from the pocket of her dress. “If you see her, tell her that I love her.”

Without warning, Callie hauls her niece into a tight hug. “May we meet again.” 

Clarke’s hug is similarly fierce. “May we meet again.”

She follows Bellamy into the basket and watches her aunt’s face fade from view. No matter the course of her life, she will always be in debt to Lady Kane for helping them through this trial.

It takes five days to reach land and Bellamy spends most it retching into a bucket or moaning from the bed. 

“How are you not sick?” he asks as she wipes a cool cloth over his brow.

“Lucky, I guess.” She was last on a boat the year of her eighth name day when her family traveled south to visit the capital. She remembers it being an easy journey as well. 

She slides into the narrow bunk and opens the book they borrowed from the captain. Despite his low birth, Bellamy can read, but looking at the letters makes his nausea worse so she’s taken to reading aloud. _The Adventures of Brienne the Brave_ has made for a riveting tale. 

She strokes her hand through his hair as she reads, listening to his even breathing between words. She thinks she could watch him sleep for the rest of her life and never grow bored.

At Eastwatch, the Night’s Watch gives them food and lodging and agrees to transport them to Castle Black. Clarke and Bellamy revert to their old tale of newlyweds in search of work and the brothers readily believe them. They also believe Clarke might be with child and insist she ride in the wagon for the three-day’s journey to Castle Black. The constant bumping and rolling have her retching, confirming their suspicions and leaving Bellamy to care for her.

“You planned this,” she hisses that night while reclining in their makeshift bed. The only positive part of this misfortune is sleeping in the wagon rather than on the hard ground. “Revenge for the trading cog.” It had been his idea to add the lie about the babe – if the Watch turned them away, he thought it would make them sympathetic to their cause.

He laughs and slides in beside her. “Only one more day and you can burn the wagon.”

She’s glad he can’t see the devastation on her face. One more day and she’ll be rid of this abominable contraption, but Bellamy too. Castle Black marks the end of their journey together. He’ll search Mole’s Town for his sister and she’ll beg the Watch to make her home with them until Arklight is safe. She’ll never see him again.

Castle Black rises before them, ancient and proud, and Clarke knows she should feel relief. Castle Black is safety – refuge – a chance to catch her breath before the inevitable storm. She only feels loss. She can feel Bellamy slipping away even as he stands at her side.

Marcus Kane waits for them in the yard and unlike his wife, he is much changed. His beard is long and streaked with gray and the deep black of his cloak casts a dull pallor over his skin. It’s not until Clarke is close enough to touch him that she sees the familiar laugh lines around his eyes, the humor lurking there. It’s the only thing the Watch hasn’t taken from him.

“Niece,” he says and bows his head.

“Uncle,” she responds. Someone behind Marcus clears his throat and she corrects herself. “Lord Commander.”

“Only the Watch calls me that.” He strides across the yard and wraps her in his arms, lifts her from the ground as if she was still a girl. 

Clarke smiles at him, the favorite uncle she hasn’t seen in over a decade. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” He stares at Bellamy. “And you have brought a friend.”

She gestures for him to come forward. “Bellamy was my loyal companion on the journey here. He is the reason I am still alive.”

Marcus studies Bellamy, his gaze sweeping from the top of his head to his muddy boots, lingering on his muscled arms. “What did you do before becoming my niece’s champion?”

“Apprentice to an armorer, my lord.”

“We are always in need of skilled blacksmiths. Should you wish to take the vows, there’s a place for you here.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Clarke scowls. Men of the Watch take no wives and father no children. It’s an offer she hopes he refuses.

Marcus instructs a steward to prepare their rooms while they meet in his solar. Upon entering the room, his raven eyes them curiously. 

“Ram! Ram!” It squawks the moment it lays eyes on Bellamy.

“So it’s true then?” Marcus pours wine and joins them at the table. He raises his eyebrows when they plead innocence. “I knew Thelonious in his youth. Women were his weakness and you have his eyes.”

“I have no father.”

Marcus leans back in his seat and takes a long sip of wine. “There’s power in king’s blood. The Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm but we are not unaware. There is turmoil in the capital and Wallaces on the move. Their men have been seen as far north as Hydraport.”

“Which is why it’s so important that no one knows our true identities,” Clarke says. "Please, Marcus, do not turn us away.”

“I said the words and keep to my vows, but I won’t turn my back on family. You will have a place for as long as you need.”

“And me? What of my identity?” Bellamy’s arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw tense with worry.

“The Watch does not interfere with the affairs of the realm.”

Relief washes over Bellamy’s face. “Thank you.”

Marcus shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if we visit Mole’s Town?” They quickly reveal Bellamy’s true purpose at the Wall.

“The second steward goes to Mole’s Town on the morrow to purchase grain. You may accompany him and search for your sister then.” 

“Thank you, Uncle!”

Marcus waves her away. “Now, tell me of Callie.”

They talk with Marcus through the afternoon, laying out in intimate detail the events that unfolded in the capital as well as during their time at Kane’s Folly. They eat in his private solar to better conceal their identities. 

“Some of them are noble born,” Marcus explains. “They might recognize you and even the Wall isn’t free of the Spider’s reach.” Clarke grimaces at mention of Lord Emerson.

“The solar is fine,” Clarke assures him and he leaves them to their meal while he dines with his brothers.

After dinner, a blushing steward leads them to their chambers. Both rooms are simply furnished but neatly kept and situated on opposite sides of a narrow hall. 

“Goodnight, milady,” the steward squeaks. Clarke wonders the last time he saw a woman.

“Thank you, Myles. You as well.” He blushes even redder and takes his leave.

She and Bellamy retreat to their separate chambers and Clarke prepares for bed. She slept in her dress during their long days on the road, but she has privacy tonight. She can sleep naked or in her shift, or even the tunic Denby gave her. She stares dispassionately at her pack. It’s not choosing sleepwear that’s causing her to feel unsettled. 

Since their first night in the Jordan’s barn, she hasn’t slept without Bellamy wrapped around her. She misses his warmth and his strength, even the soft snorting sounds he sometimes makes. She misses his skin sliding over hers and his breath in her hair and the tingling in her belly every time his arm brushes the underside of her breast. She misses _him_.

Before she can second guess herself, she slips into her tunic and pads barefoot across the stone floor, silently crosses the hall and slips into Bellamy’s chamber. He’s in bed, but not asleep, and before she loses her nerve, she climbs into bed with him. She shudders from the feel of him and burrows deeper into the blankets.

He shifts instinctively to give her room and curls his body around hers. “My sister would do the same when she was scared.”

She starts to protest – she’s anything but scared – but she doesn’t want to argue, not on this night, not when they’re safe and warm and together. Instead, she shoves him to his back and straddles his hips. She wears nothing beneath the tunic and he groans from the feel of her bare skin. 

“Do you see me as your sister?”

Bellamy doesn’t hesitate, his voice thick with desire. “No.” 

Feeling more confident, she puts his hands on her hips beneath the linen tunic, so he can feel the soft, warm curves of her body. He groans again. “Good.”

He rises to meet her as she bends to meet him and their mouths come together, hot and wet and wanting. She thinks nothing could feel better but then his mouth is on her neck and then her breasts and finally a lord’s kiss between her thighs. It only gets better from there, even with some pain and some awkwardness, but he’s patient with her and the hunger in his eyes makes her feel more powerful than the day she first held Griffin’s Grace. It’s even headier, having Bellamy at her mercy, than holding the seat of a great house. After, she lies in his arms with her head pillowed by his chest. His heart beats furiously and that heady feeling grows stronger. 

Suddenly, he stiffens and her heart plunges into her belly. She won’t be able to face him if he regrets what they’ve done. “I didn’t think…Clarke, what if you’re with child?” Even in the darkness she can see the panic in his eyes.

She eases him back on the pillows and presses a kiss over his heart. “I won’t be. There are ways to prevent it. I know them.”

He contemplates a moment. “Your aunt.”

“My aunt. She likes you and she wants the best for us.”

“And what do you want?”

Dreams are made of songs and stories, but she wants them all the same. “I want to stay here with you.”

His arms tighten around her. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

She listens as his breathing slows, falls into a deep, even rhythm. His words were meant to bring her comfort, but they’re not enough. She wants more than a single morning – she wants forever.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy shakes with anticipation during their ride into Mole’s Town. He keeps pace with Steward Byrne and his wagon, but his hand not holding the reins taps an incessant rhythm against his thigh. Each league they ride deepens the pain in Clarke’s chest. She rides slightly behind him, her gaze fixed on the straight line of his back. She wonders when there will come a time when he isn’t riding away from her.

They question the townsfolk while Byrne buys wheat and barley. None know of Octavia’s whereabouts and most feign ignorance in knowing her at all, except Mother Mole, the formidable mistress of the town’s only brothel. 

Bellamy pales and beneath the table, Clarke takes his hand. She can’t imagine how he’ll feel if he learns Octavia came all the way north only to take up the profession she’d hoped to escape.

“I know her, aye.” 

“So where is she?” Bellamy’s voice is taut with irritation. Mother Mole shrugs and looks away. He looks like he wants to wring her neck.

Clarke sighs. She’s seen this game before. When they were presented before her father, captured smugglers from the Bay of Seals often tried to bargain information for gold and silver. 

She stares at Mother Mole. “We have coin.” 

The madam's demeanor visibly relaxes. “Then I have information.”

Bellamy scowls as he counts out ten gold coins. “Where is my sister?

“Gone.” 

Clarke grips Bellamy’s knee to hold him in place. “Gone where?”

“Taken by a wildling a year past. They steal their women and fight to keep them. Your sister, she never came back.”

Without a word, Bellamy pushes to his feet and storms out the door. Mother Mole requests more coin, but he ignores everything in quest to reach his horse, even Clarke calling his name. When she finally reaches him, he’s striding confidently towards the Black Gate. 

“Let me through.” The various brothers in the yard ignore him entirely. “Let. Me. Through.”

The guards pull swords and stand in a straight line before the gate. Bellamy lowers his head as if to charge them. 

“Bellamy, stop!” Clarke calls out. He’s angry and volatile and unarmed. She won’t have him losing his life because he can’t think straight.

“My sister is out there.” He says the words to the assembled crowd, but he looks right at her. She can see the pleading – the fear – in his eyes. He’s terrified of what he’ll find beyond the Wall.

Tentatively, she touches his arm, gently strokes the tightly coiled muscles. “Let’s think this through.” 

“I hear our guests wish to go ranging.”

They turn to find Marcus watching them with his laughing eyes. 

Bellamy straightens. “My sister was stolen by a wildling a year past. I wish to find her.”

Marcus thinks on it a moment. “Open the gate.” Protests rumble around them but Marcus’ decision is clear. His eyes are solemn when he looks at Bellamy. “It is your life to risk. If you don’t return, no one will come for you.”

“I understand.” 

Clarke steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with Bellamy. “I do too.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I made a vow.”

“I release you from it!”

She cups his cheek. “That’s not how it works.” 

He pulls her to a corner to talk privately. “I have no proof that Octavia is still alive – ” 

“She is – ”

“ – I can’t lose you both!” His chest heaves with emotion. “My entire life I only thought myself capable of loving my sister but then I met you…I love you, Clarke Griffin. I won’t lose you.”

Bellamy’s a little blurry from the tears in her eyes but she still manages a smile. “You said I would bring light back to the realm.” She takes his hand and presses it over her heart. “The light is here, my love for you. Without you, how could I shine?”

He stares at her a long time, his beautiful eyes caressing the planes of her face. “Alright,” he finally says. “We do this together.”

She pushes to her tiptoes and kisses him, heedless of the audience gathered in the yard. “Together.”

 

* * *

 

From the Watch they receive provisions and thick fur cloaks and to Clarke’s surprise, a pair of longswords. 

Marcus stands with them at the edge of the world. “I’m not so cruel as to send you beyond the wall without a weapon.” He pulls his niece into a fierce hug. “May we meet again.” He glances at Bellamy. “Good luck.”

He disappears through the tunnel, his black cloak swirling about his ankles. Clarke hopes it’s not the last time she sees her uncle. 

“I’m ready.” She takes Bellamy’s hand and treads by his side into the wilderness.

The first days are uneventful. They walk and cook and build ramshackle shelters for warmth. They melt snow to drink and make meals of the crumbly biscuits the steward put in their packs. They lie naked beneath the stars and hold each other, skin to skin, through the long night. It’s bitterly cold and her nose is always running, her hair always matted with ice, but Clarke can’t remember a time she enjoyed more. Being with Bellamy, even if it means possible death, is worth more than any Southron summer.

It’s the sixth day when they spot the eagle circling overhead, its cry piercing the silent landscape. It’s not long after when the Wildlings appear, a woman and two men, with spears and bows and covered from head to toe in animal skins. Bellamy’s hand tightens around the handle of his sword but Clarke steps forward, hands open to show she holds no weapons. 

She starts to explain that they come in peace, that they have no quarrel, that they seek only information about one serving girl, but the woman interrupts her, pushes back her hood to reveal a long tangle of dark hair. Her blue eyes are enormous when they land on Bellamy. 

“Bell?”

“O?”

Clarke watches as brother and sister reunite, run across the short distance separating them and throw themselves into each other’s arms. Bellamy’s hands shake as he strokes his sister’s hair and Clarke can hear Octavia’s sobs as she clings to her brother. Tears pool in her eyes, from cold or happiness or loss, she doesn’t know, only that she feels the urge to sob. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. She doesn’t want to ruin Bellamy’s moment.

Bellamy and Octavia whisper together, laughing and crying, as they share how they came to find each other. Eventually, Bellamy lets go of his sister and reaches for Clarke, keeps an arm wrapped around her waist while he introduces them.

“Hello, Octavia. I’m glad to see you well.”

Without warning, Octavia throws her arms around Clarke. “Thank you for bringing him back to me.”

Clarke forces a smile. Giving Octavia her brother means losing Bellamy. Her chest hurts from more than the cold. 

The larger of the two men steps forward. He speaks the Common Tongue, although haltingly. “We have food and shelter. You are welcome to share our fire tonight.”

Octavia skips ahead with her brother while Clarke follows with the Wildling men. Lincoln is larger but Nyko is also a healer and Clarke spends much of the walk to their camp discussing plants and herbal remedies. She’s surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. All her life, the Wildlings were evil lurking in the shadows, a cautionary tale to keep little girls from slipping from their beds, but Lincoln and Nyko are no different than her or Bellamy. If they bled, their blood would be as red; if a loved one died, their grief would as pained. They are different, yes, but not so much that they need a war to settle them.

Dinner is dried meat and cold biscuits and the Wildling men tell bawdy tales that bring tears of laughter to the group’s eyes. When the meal is over, they offer the “kneelers” shelter in their tents. 

Bellamy catches his sister before she crawls into Lincoln’s tent. His gaze is cold and accusing, but it’s not what he wishes to discuss.

“I have something to tell you,” he says when his sister sits at his side by the fire, Clarke listening from the log behind him. There, but not there, and always watching his back. She likes to think he’d do the same if the situations were reversed. To her surprise, he reaches back and grasps her hand, his fingers twining around hers. He sucks in a breath and his grip tightens. “I know who my father is. 

Octavia looks skeptical. “A Gold Cloak? Some drunk from Pigrun Alley?” 

“The king.”

Her eyes widen until they nearly burst from her face. “But how?”

He looks at her knowingly. “You know what our mother was like.”

Octavia’s gaze shifts to Clarke. “You believe this?”

Clarke nods. “It’s true.”

“ _Prince_ Bellamy,” Octavia smirks. “He always did have a high opinion of himself. Now we know why.”

Bellamy lobs a snowball at his sister. “I’m still me.”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not. You’re a prince of the blood, Bellamy. You could do real good for the realm.”

He laughs. “I’m a king’s natural son and his queen is hunting me like common game. The revolution will have to wait.” His face softens. “Besides, I have found you again.”

Clarke stiffens. Her place is at Arklight and Bellamy is planning to remain with his sister beyond the wall. This is it for them.

Octavia’s sharp gaze missing nothing, her eyes flicking between her brother and Clarke. “You are the heir to Arklight, yes?”

“I am,” Clarke whispers. Each time she admits it, the pain eases some. She can’t bring her father back, but she can make him proud, just like Bellamy said.

Bellamy’s sister takes his hand and then Clarke’s. “My place is here, Bell, and your place is with her. Make your home in Arklight.”

“My sister, my responsibility. I said that to you the day you were born.”

“I release you from your vow.”

“That’s not how it works!”

Octavia smiles tearily. “It is now.” 

Bellamy pulls away from both women, anguish etched into his face as he looks from one to the other. “Don’t make me choose.”

“I’m choosing for you. You sent me North to escape a future I didn’t want.” She opens her arms wide. “It might not be what you intended, but I’m free. I have a man, a place. I’m happy, Bell. I don’t need you to protect me.” 

“You’re sure?”

She gives her brother a shove. “Go with Clarke. Be a fancy lord and attend court, make it so no other girl suffers my fate.” 

He presses a gentle kiss to his sister’s forehead. “May we meet again.”

Octavia doesn’t attempt to hide the tears slipping down her cheeks. “May we meet again.”

Clarke retreats to the tent she’ll share with Bellamy while he talks in low whispers with his sister. They have much to discuss and she’s happy to let them talk in peace. And in truth, she needs time to herself. It stings, the choice Bellamy tried to make. She rubs her chest in hopes it will ease the pain in her heart.

She kicks off her boots and her chest continues to ache. She slides beneath the furs and her chest continues to ache. She clutches her grandmother’s ring and the ache lessens. 

_Family_. She understands well the power that it holds. Her mother sacrificed the man she loved to protect her child – can she fault Bellamy for doing the same for his sister? If it were her father, what choice would she have made? She’s still thinking on it when Bellamy comes in shaking snow from his hair. 

He quickly removes his boots and climbs into bed beside her. “I’m sorry,” he says into her hair. “I love you both and didn’t know how to choose.”

“I’ve another choice for you.”

“Do you?”

She shifts so they’re facing each other, tries to read his eyes in the darkness. “Your sister was right. I can’t hide at the Wall while the realm bleeds.” She takes a deep breath for courage. “I intend to claim my seat as Lady of Arklight. I’d like you to come with me.”

“As your companion?”

“As my prince.”

He holds her gaze a long minute, thinking hard on what she’s asking of him, the threats it will put on his life. “I accept.” He bends his head and kisses her, lazy and slow, but enough to spread fire through her belly. “When the time is right, I will make you a princess.” 

“Not if I’m already a queen. Once, my people ruled themselves. There’s no king, but we could have a queen. A Queen in the North.” She pushes him to his back and slides over him like their night in Castle Black. He trembles with desire. 

“A Queen in the North.” 

She bends her head and kisses him, whispers against his mouth. “Together, we will bring back the light.”

“Together.”

 

* * *

 

When they wake in the morning, a red comet arcs through the misty sky. Lincoln says it is a messenger from the gods, a herald of a new age.

Clarke turns her face to the sun. The light is already beginning to shine.


End file.
